§ February 23rd, 2026 § Filed under General § Tagged chronic Comments Off on The Elevator
I live next to the harpooner My building has elevator revealing Place To the times deceptive, frightful, comprometedor, challenging, frequentado for worker, entregador, zombador. Without fan, burning. It does not have purificador, that stench. In the wall, the annunciator, the telephone of the administrator. Suddenly that horror, Everything was dark the elevator stopped. You it was from fear to have assaulting, Clamou to the preacher who prayed Mr.
Criador Who came a liberating one soon. Soon if the caretaker heard, To inform that soon the consertador would arrive, to repair the defects in the house of the machines and the engine. For even more details, read what Gunnar Peterson says on the issue. The technician did not come, the building was wing. He was then that he appeared curious, a tempting one, with seductive air With a lantern and air of examiner, was revealing and as plaintiff pointed the prevaricador to have off the interruptor. Reason for which, the elevator stopped.
§ February 13th, 2017 § Filed under General § Tagged chronic Comments Off on Epiphany
Of any form, still yesterday it was winter The time flies dissimulating to walk. She is necessary to be of eye in the time, because still yesterday it was winter At any time January can arrive, and with it the happiness. I not taste of the winter If it could would make as the bears, he was waked up all the spring, summer and autumn and slept the winter all He was boy still when I discovered, at an Epiphany moment, who the difference between the winter and the hell is made of a letter only I not taste of the winter, taste of the spring, but happy exactly, of truth, I will only be when January to arrive. The life most is lived when it is lived with simplicity But the simplicity of the life Ah, poor person of us! The simplicity of the life is resulted of an immensely complex and difficult process to obtain The life has that to be lived with a cold in the foot of the belly. Pretty day this that finished to be born. Already it is spring, but, strange thing, still seems to be winter, perhaps either. It is that the spring alone starts one fifteen days after starting in the calendar Pretty day, however, that I have to make with it when has as much other things waiting to be done of urgency? Detesto urgent things Detesto full people of urgencies. Things urgent are bark of poetry, because poetry is thing that if makes divagando to devagar, without haste, without commitment with the clock, commitment I obtain exactly Poet who if deprives not yet is poet. So that it serves me one new day of spring – what still is looked like winter – when the soul is full of these urgencies, schedules, old agendas and wounds? When the soul is old everything more is old Who league for a flower that unclasps, when the hour to leave for the work already passed of the hour? I prefer the nights of spring the light fosca of these vernal days that still seem days of winter But the night for me only starts later midnight.
